The Purge: Blood for Gold
by presidentuziel
Summary: On the day of the Purge, there's a lot of people who think they're invincible. I'm the man who reminds the world that nobody, no matter how powerful, is safe. My name is Roger Tiller, and I'm a professional Purger. With my partner Slice, I take on bounties to kill the untouchable. But this year, the bounty is the Purge itself.
1. Introduction

Once a year, millions of people take to the streets, armed with blades and guns and whatever twisted machinations they have ever fantasized about and do it. They do it to release all their rage and frustrations and hatred, so as to make a better America.

They're a bunch of fucking amateurs.

See, I don't like the Purge. It's flawed in a lot of fucked up ways. Social advocates point out that the number one victim of the Purge is the homeless, followed by the poor, and then debt collectors. I know a lot of debt collectors, you gotta be a real badass to take that job.

Everyone else holes up in their homes. They buy fancy security systems or they take a flight to another country for the week. People who do that are usually shunned for being cowards, but I don't blame them. See, if only psychopaths indulge in the Purge, then at the end of the day, there's a lot fewer normal people left. That eventually leaves us only with psychopaths, and people rich enough to armor-plate their homes and teach their children how to shoot or to kill a man with their bare hands.

Now I'm grateful to be one of those people, don't get me wrong. Everyone in my family is a bonafide badass, from my seven year old son to my wheelchair-bound Uncle Lou. I've never lost anyone in my home in the Purge. In fact, I operate a number of shelters for the homeless and stranded. My record isn't perfect in those, but they're pretty good.

The reason I don't go out to Bermuda for the Purge and let it all go over like a bad dream is because that's when I do my job. My family does go to our vacation home in Vietnam, and my coworkers hole up in my house. I used to have our vacation home in Thailand, but they introduced their own Purge, so good luck getting rich Americans to invest there now, you dumbasses.

I work one day a year. Well, that's not entirely true, there's a lot of logistics that soaks up a fair amount of my time, but all of that work ties to my job. Now, I don't put on a mask and kill homeless dudes to get my rocks off, or set buses on fire. What I do is professional, cool and collected. People put out a lot of contracts on folks that can't be reached in their impenetrable fortresses, or simply disappear for the Purge and then reappear the next day. It takes a real ballsy professional to infiltrate and locate people like that, and it pays off. Oh, does it pay off. You see, along with murder and rape and vandalism, assassination is legal, too.

And I'm the best assassin in the country. My name's Roger Tiller. And I'm a professional purger.


	2. Emergency Services Suspended

"Come on you you fuckin CUNTS lemme in and I'll make sure it doesn't HURT TOO BAD! LITTLE CUNTS, LITTLE CUNTS, LET ME IN! OR I'LL HUFF! AND I'LL PUFF! AND I'LL-"

Splatter your brains all over the door? Not sure that's how that one goes. Ah, well. Sucks to be him. I stepped over the pool of blood and looked directly into the camera. It was ten past seven. The Purge had only been going for ten minutes, and some poor woman had been raped and killed just a few feet away from one of my safehouses. Her shirt and pants had been cut open with a knife, leaving a deep gash in her belly. Her throat had been similarly opened.

"Not by the hair of our chinny chin chins," I said, "Is there anyone in there?"

No response. That was fine, "Listen, I built this safehouse. It's connected to a network. Just stay there, my people will make sure nothing happens to you. They have control over the doors, they won't let anyone in that they don't think is safe. And if someone does get in, they'll flood it with knockout gas, and someone will be along to move you all to safety. There's instant cocoa in the back, it's marked."

"Sir look out!" a voice squeaked from the speaker and I spun around gun raised, pointing it at the head of a man wearing an Uncle Sam mask and a hoodie. He held a machete in one hand, and a silenced pistol in the other. I lowered the gun, and turned to the camera.

"Don't worry, he's with me. And the knockout gas is totally safe, I've had people run out of the safehouse only to be chopped up when they were told about it. You're better off staying in there. Come on, Slice, let's go."

This is Slice. He has a different mask every year, but the same stupid blue hoodie, and he has that raspy breath like those psycho killers in the movies that breathes down the victim's neck from behind a closet while they piss their pants. Slice and I have been Purge partners for years, even before I became a professional. The son of a bitch ran with a gang during Purge back in the day, but when I killed most of his buddies, he decided I was more fun and finished off the last one. We've been taking care of each other ever since. Creepy motherfucker, he doesn't say much beyond what's absolutely needed. I pay him forty percent of what I take in, but he doesn't spend much of it. Enough to pay for his mortgage and a few living expenses. The guy's a millionaire, but as far as I know he barely makes rent. He just does this because I give him interesting kills, and if I ever need someone tortured, he thinks of the most fucked up shit to do to people. I've seen him force feed a man his own cooked foot. Fucked up.

We walked into the alley, and took off the tarp we had hiding an armored Dodge Charger. This is the Massacre. She's been rebuilt so many times she can barely be referred to as a Dodge anymore, and this sexy beast has saved my life more times than I can count. She's got all the gadgets: GPS, speaker systems, taser lining, submachine guns in the front, a roll cage, enhanced suspension, and a little auto-loading machine that automatically loads all my magazines for me. I've sold the designs for this baby to the Department of Defense. It paid for that vacation home in Vietnam I mentioned.

Slice got in first. I drive. Slice brought up the onboard computer as I started her up. Some dumbass walked in front of the car with a shotgun and said something sassy. I punched the accelerator, and the jerk rolled over the car. I hit the brakes suddenly, put it in reverse, and drove over the guy again before going down the road.

"Hello Slice," a woman said out of the computer. She put a long, seductive emphasis on 'hello,' "You gonna show me what's under that mask this year? At least give me some tongue."

Slice just stared at the screen, motionless, until I motioned to his shoulder. He looked at me, then to his shoulder, jumped in place, and put the seatbelt on in a sheepish motion. Monica laughed.

"One of these days you're gonna have to tell me who you really are, Slice. Let me see the boss."

Slice pointed the laptop at me. I didn't look at it.

"Hello, Monica."

"Hello, Roger. Having a good Purge?"

"I've Killed two people ad it's only been about fifteen minutes. It's been a pretty good day."

"I bet. So, like we planned, first target is Otto Day. He's in a penthouse downtown having a Purge Party with lots of armed guards. Well-paid armed guards. Cops and soldiers, mostly."

"Sell-outs and traitors," I muttered. There's quite a lot of capitalization on the Purge. One of them is armed security. I considered expanding into it, but it's very boring and extremely competitive.

"Right. We already have a man on the inside of the party. Park the Massacre in the garage, and he'll unlock the elevators for you once you message me. How do you want to do this once you're inside the party? There's a lotta people in there, and they're all armed."

There were a few ways I could do it. I could go in loud, kill all of the guards, pick out my target and have Slice cut off his head. I could slip in, looking like one of the party-goers, until I find the target and shank him. Slice wouldn't appreciate that, though, since it means only a little bit of bloodshed. Another option would be to scare the shit out of everyone, get them on edge, and then after toying with them for a bit, I kill a couple of people, and get them thinking that it's everyone else. The bloodbath essentially starts itself from there, and hopefully Mister Day is among the corpses. If not, Slice takes him out. But those people are just trying to survive, the Purge is already too bloody.

"We'll get in, and lure Mister Day somewhere private. I'll have to kill a guard and take his uniform to do it. Once we have him, we'll kill him and get out," I told Monica, "Like we'd planned."

"You always stick to the plan," she accused.

"I always survive," I pointed out.

"Our insider says he's got the camera destroyed on the rear elevator on the right from the lobby. That's this one here, got it?" Monica switched to a map of the layout of the building's bottom floor. I only dared glance at it, not wanting to get into an accident or something else moronically stupid.

"Got it," I said. Slice moved the screen towards him to take a quick look.

"Don't take too long, we've still got five more contracts to do today. That's an average of two hours each if you want to get each and every one of them. Mister Day is the most time-sensitive, since his contract's only good for this year's purge. After that, the client says there's no point."

"Got it," I told her, "Keep me updated, and stay safe, Monica. Tell everyone I said hello."

"They know. Loveya boys. And Slice, pick me up some flowers while you're out. Try not to get too much blood on them, mkay?" Monica said. Slice turned off the video call. Monica directed trains most of the year. For the Purge, she worked with me, keeping track of Purge feeds and generally mapping out the city. When I'd met her, she was just on her way back from work, and after I'd told her I had no place to be for the Purge, she managed to hide me in a train car. We've been friends ever since.

The basement parking garage to the building was nearly empty of cars. There were a few vans, most of which were probably for the security guys. Most of the cars would be vandalized, stolen, or otherwise broken into. The Massacre would be fine. Anyone trying to touch her would end up pretty fucked up by the tasers, or the automatic turret if it started taking actual damage. Don't look at me like that, that car's saved more people than it's killed. More or less.

I found a spot near the stairs, and backed into a spot so that when we got back in, it would be easy to drive away. The parking garage wasn't the optimal place for a firefight if one broke out, but I was confident in our chances if it came to that. When we stepped out of the car, we saw three guys. One of them was standing in front of the other two, holding a shotgun. He wore a monkey mask, and had a cigarette in his mouth. Another guy was beating the tar out of someone on the ground. Some homeless dude. Slice and I stared at them. We were better armed than the dude, but he wasn't fazed.

"The fuck you looking at? You wanna be next?" he asked, "Move along, motherfucker."

Slice and I looked at each other, and we walked to the staircase. I put on my mask. Just a dark blue hockey mask, nothing flashy. When we were on the other side of the door, I produced my phone, and tapped into the remote control features of the Massacre. I got a camera feed, and I ordered the turret to pop out. It did, and targeted the three men. I tapped the two armed ones. Bangbang, bangbang. Both were on the ground. Slice went back into the garage, and I heard him slit their throats. I followed. Slice was standing over the victim, who was clutching his ribs and sobbing. I approached. The guy's coat was worn and dirty, and he hadn't shaved in a while.

"Just do it," he cried, "Just fuckin kill me alree-hee-hee-hee…"

I knelt beside him, and tapped him on the arm, "Hey, man, it's not like that. Get to fourth street, there's a plain gray building. You'll be safe there, all right, dude?"

He looks up at me and gasped for breath. His face was soaked with tears, "Why? What do you care? I'm just gonna fuckin' die either way…"

"I've been where you are," I handed him his tormentor's shotgun and mask, "Get to Fourth street, and abandon the mask when you do. You might make it, you might not. But do me a favor: If you see someone getting hurt, kill the motherfuckers doing it, all right? Let's turn the Purge on its head."

"You vigilantes or somethin'?" he was standing up now.

"Concerned citizens. Get out of here before my friend here gets choppy."

The homeless man checked the dead men for supplies as we went back to the stairs. I knew what Slice was thinking, he always thought it.

"Hey, shut up, I've had people save me during the Purge, it's good to return the favor whenever I can. One of these Purge's I'm gonna skip the jobs and just kill every mother fucker thinking he can go around tearing people's shit up. It's gonna be fucking glorious, killing the killers? You should get more into it. Take some morals, you know? Take a stand, don't let anyone fuck with others anymore. Makes you feel _good. _Fuck the system and all that, you dig? And believe me, there'll be a lotta good kills. Make them worth all the more. I mean, you were there when I started turning things around, I was homeless just like him. Not everyone's cut out for this murderfest, but _everyone's_ gotta do it. It's not like everyone _chooses_ to take part in the Purge. Everyone _has_ to be part of it. There's not _choice, _and _that's_ what's so fucked up about it. I mean, if it was just gladiator blood sports, then it's all controlled and consensual. That'd make a little more sense. But, no. Homeless people and families, you know?"

I looked back at him as we were at the door to the lobby. He stared at me.

"You understand, right?"

He wordlessly gazed back at me.

I like Slice.

He's a good listener.


End file.
